The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.28.14
”I would love to spend all my time writing to you; I'd love to share with you all that goes through my mind, all that weighs on my heart, all that gives air to my soul; phantoms of art, dreams that would be so beautiful if they could come true.” Luigi Pirandello
••• The Mad Gallery •••
whirlwind woman (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito. To see more Mad works from Mike and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we looked to learn before living, know before seeing; we sought to sunder lies from truth, fraught with fallacies, forsooth; we didn't begrudge the dumped bucket sludge of judgmental jokesters; we saw a mystery unsolved, a hallelujah un-evolved; we cringed 'neath crow encroachment of a heartbeat moon; we looked for our lust to meet us, with crows calling o'er our coitus; we boarded the bus which trundles us into recollections of fantastic collections of stories (untold glories). All this weight we bear with joy and anticipation; we must. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
House of Cards
for Stephanie and Ed and their firstborn
I’m gathering the stories
like playing cards,
stacked up high,
others laid out by suit,
the one-eyed jack and the false king, side by side.
They are the stories I will tell you,
when you are born
and old enough to understand stories,
of family, and dark spaces,
of jealous kings, and what lurks under bridges,
of tracks traced in the snow, secret rings,
and sleeping women who don’t wake up.
And these stories will belong to you,
and you will carry them with you,
in the space that we all have, between our ribs,
where we keep the stories,
and if you are lucky,
you will remember them
as I have.
And they will feed you,
as they have fed me.
And you will stand at a street corner one day,
waiting for the bus,
a ticket clenched tight in your hand,
your coat in the other,
and you will wonder about these stories,
why they were so fascinating
but you will also know, deep down inside,
a truth you aren’t able to say aloud.
And we will all be dead and gone.
You will be older then, older than any of us are now,
and you will board the bus and the doors will hiss closed behind you,
and it will lurch forward
down a road you have always avoided
but now, are ready to travel.
You will think they are just stories,
but in time you will realize it is what kept you alive.
I thought that too, in the days before you were named, but
they do not belong to anyone, these stories,
we belong to them.
You will take a seat on the bus, next to no one.
Your lips will move as if you are praying,
the machine will rattle forward and at that single moment
the story will start all over again.
- Ally Malinenko
(1 poem added 06.28.14)
editor's note: Everything is story; we're all characters in god's novel. - mh
Rookery
Sweet hollow, the sound
of wooden flutes, dense, this forest of
amber hair, wet
scents: musk and verdigris and
your sweat, the dusky skies
ultramarine, the lapis clouds,
knowing nothing of our touching
rum-tanged tongues
on grassy hill, green earth, breath
of Andromeda, lost as you kiss
as if to marry with your mouth
arches of my lightening, bare
feet…
O brush the inside of denuded knees, bristles
of beard, tickling
roughly as you kiss, moving
upward, my inner thighs. I wait for you as you,
smelling my broom of auburn,
begin to swell, for I
now ache, feigning
soft teases of…
embarrassment, this solstice
return of Amarterasu, quivering
as sunrise returns, you caressing
Solar Plexus, lap aureoles
until, skin reddened, I
cry inside your sighs, wind wet
Blackbird singing as if to
answer creaking cedar branches….
we become the witchy boat…
- Concubine
(added 06.27.14)
editor's note: We watch from prurient perch, ruffle feathers and crow like we know what we want. - mh
Lawless moon
Under a lawless moon
the night's heart thumps
to the beat of blackened
streets as a belly full of crows
in the oak trees thrash
their sleek wings against
the empty void in the night.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 06.26.14)
editor's note: A bird-borne bellyache from a scofflaw sky-lit thief - no sleep for you. - mh
Fifty Days in Witness Protection
There was a death, a hard one to hang your hat on,
not that any hat rack has a corner on holding
emotions while hearts carry on across the coffee
shop floor to a corner table sanctified,
a temporary sanctuary, two walls meeting up
with one latte, one private space in a peopled
room, soothing isolation facing opiated unity.
A temporary time between goodbye and hello,
protected, loved, gifted. Salve for an open wound
between tomb and womb. Oh troubled Jerusalem!
Where did your hearts go when consumed with grief
and in need of a place to bury consciousness
yet know you still breathed blood? City gates and a cup
of goats milk (hats hung, lattes slung), and the drone
of faded hallelujahs (lifelike conversation)
took you, takes me, to the mother of all whodunits.
- Beth DeSeelhorst
(added 06.25.14)
editor's note: That hat's a black fedora and the reveal is going to be something to see, in the end. - mh
Moth To A Light
Suppose angels drift like salt
or gracile jellyfish.
That at the core of an infant’s cry
armies of angels reside.
That angels are a peculiar lot,
flitting like moths around a candlewick
or trap of warm cinders.
Suppose they pour kisses over your eyes
or tickle your palms with a feather.
That one, who stands away from the rest,
has invented a new weather –
both improbable and comic.
Consider angels exploiting
your predilection toward sin,
taunting your hunkered-down mind,
goading you to slouch lower,
gloating by the graveside.
That they’re not angels at all,
but the reflection of men
in a bucket of black water.
You wouldn’t go back on your promises then,
would you old friend?
You wouldn’t regret living?
- Bruce McRae
(added 06.24.14)
editor's note: It's new weather for me. Those black water men are all wet; tired o' them. - mh
Fallacious Belief
We believe it’s a disease,
And slagged her off because she wouldn’t give him pity.
But really we’re falling faster than faith,
And drowning in murky waters of no self-discipline.
But we were born to shine.
I was born to shine.
Turning points reap ambition reclamation.
- Paul Donnachie
(2 poems added 06.23.14)
editor's note: We all float in the same free fall; fallacies abound. (We welcome Paul to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets with this submission. See more of his madness on his new page - with another new one, about a foul fetish. Check it out!) - mh
MY VILLANELLE
I want to learn to live before I die
To glimpse the light that makes my vision clear
To see the truth that lies within the lie.
I freely put the questions ‘how?’ and ‘why?’
And seek the face unknown in darkest fear.
I want to learn to live before I die.
The days and years stream swiftly swiftly by
In shimmering illusions cherished dear
Despite the truth that lies within the lie.
I found my hand in yours, so you and I
Gave each our vows, impassioned, young, sincere.
I want to learn to live before I die.
The teachers teach, the prophets prophesy
But miss the mystic rhythms of the sphere
Nor see the truth that lies within the lie;
Pure-hearted self; I sense a higher cry
To never leave the far yet love the near.
I want to learn to live before I die
To see the truth that lies within the lie.
- Harley White
(added 06.22.14)
editor's note: The living out-weighs the knowing. What is truth? Indeed! - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Perhaps it's time to take a smoke break (if you're a chokin' smoker, that is) and you need something to keep your mind occupied while you mindlessly suck down your cancer stick? Per(cough-cough)fect!
Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Here’s To Kissing Chimneys" by Addie Soaraki… "Life comes as smoke: with a fiery center, with a body that blankets everything. When it's all over, beauty is left behind, but it takes time to forget and for new green to grow." Here's a drag to feed your jones:
(photo courtesy of Tyler Malone)
Yeah, sure. You’ve heard the old line: The young lady tells you, “I smell smoke,” and you know how it goes: Where there is smoke, most definitely, fire exists.
Did I mention fire exists? Pardon me, buddy, but after being locked in the so-called basement of life, lorded over, of course, by the Masters of All Time and All Space, you sometimes feel like heading South and starting a little lightning of your own. Don’t you?
And right: Nice guys always finish last, don’t they? Not exactly. Especially when life is a bar, and all the admirals and body language experts, the college boys who numb their instincts with alcohol and Singapore Slings, only to be force-fed someone else’s Thai food, you end-up being not so nice as you used to be, don’t you?
Been there. Done that. Yay.
So. A guy walks into a bar. This is not a joke. Nor is the bar anything close to being remotely legal or even street legal, more a shadow life in which fiber is fashion and clothes are make-up, and all the king’s Jaguars and all the King’s Ray Bans aren’t going to make a difference if you’re not, well, let’s simply call it: dangerous.
Get the rest of your smoke... er... read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of July (aka 07.02.14) at 8:00 sharp, when we will swirl it up madly in the LIVE way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, The Curiel's! Papa Chris is the mad man trumpeter of Swirve fame. Mama Tamitha is the vocalist from Swirve as well as a mighty fine writer and poet. The rest of the Curiel clan are kiddos Chaz, Caleb, & Chloe. Together they will be on our stage showing us what happens when a family gets together and swirls up some madness! DO NOT MISS THIS SHOW!
After our feature set we urge you stick around to get yourself a spot on our list... first come, first on the list! Which means... get there early!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
P.S. This month, like last month, we will be swirlin’ our madness in Absinthe’s VIP Lounge. If you don’t know where that is located, we’ll have folks up front guiding you to exactly where we’ll be.
P.P.S. AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. Here's the line-up for the rest of 2014!…
August: Justin Booth
September: R.A. Hernandez
October: Kerseymere
November: Karen X
December: Paul Koniecki
•••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Sharin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
whirlwind woman (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito. To see more Mad works from Mike and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we looked to learn before living, know before seeing; we sought to sunder lies from truth, fraught with fallacies, forsooth; we didn't begrudge the dumped bucket sludge of judgmental jokesters; we saw a mystery unsolved, a hallelujah un-evolved; we cringed 'neath crow encroachment of a heartbeat moon; we looked for our lust to meet us, with crows calling o'er our coitus; we boarded the bus which trundles us into recollections of fantastic collections of stories (untold glories). All this weight we bear with joy and anticipation; we must. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
House of Cards
for Stephanie and Ed and their firstborn
I’m gathering the stories
like playing cards,
stacked up high,
others laid out by suit,
the one-eyed jack and the false king, side by side.
They are the stories I will tell you,
when you are born
and old enough to understand stories,
of family, and dark spaces,
of jealous kings, and what lurks under bridges,
of tracks traced in the snow, secret rings,
and sleeping women who don’t wake up.
And these stories will belong to you,
and you will carry them with you,
in the space that we all have, between our ribs,
where we keep the stories,
and if you are lucky,
you will remember them
as I have.
And they will feed you,
as they have fed me.
And you will stand at a street corner one day,
waiting for the bus,
a ticket clenched tight in your hand,
your coat in the other,
and you will wonder about these stories,
why they were so fascinating
but you will also know, deep down inside,
a truth you aren’t able to say aloud.
And we will all be dead and gone.
You will be older then, older than any of us are now,
and you will board the bus and the doors will hiss closed behind you,
and it will lurch forward
down a road you have always avoided
but now, are ready to travel.
You will think they are just stories,
but in time you will realize it is what kept you alive.
I thought that too, in the days before you were named, but
they do not belong to anyone, these stories,
we belong to them.
You will take a seat on the bus, next to no one.
Your lips will move as if you are praying,
the machine will rattle forward and at that single moment
the story will start all over again.
- Ally Malinenko
(1 poem added 06.28.14)
editor's note: Everything is story; we're all characters in god's novel. - mh
Rookery
Sweet hollow, the sound
of wooden flutes, dense, this forest of
amber hair, wet
scents: musk and verdigris and
your sweat, the dusky skies
ultramarine, the lapis clouds,
knowing nothing of our touching
rum-tanged tongues
on grassy hill, green earth, breath
of Andromeda, lost as you kiss
as if to marry with your mouth
arches of my lightening, bare
feet…
O brush the inside of denuded knees, bristles
of beard, tickling
roughly as you kiss, moving
upward, my inner thighs. I wait for you as you,
smelling my broom of auburn,
begin to swell, for I
now ache, feigning
soft teases of…
embarrassment, this solstice
return of Amarterasu, quivering
as sunrise returns, you caressing
Solar Plexus, lap aureoles
until, skin reddened, I
cry inside your sighs, wind wet
Blackbird singing as if to
answer creaking cedar branches….
we become the witchy boat…
- Concubine
(added 06.27.14)
editor's note: We watch from prurient perch, ruffle feathers and crow like we know what we want. - mh
Lawless moon
Under a lawless moon
the night's heart thumps
to the beat of blackened
streets as a belly full of crows
in the oak trees thrash
their sleek wings against
the empty void in the night.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 06.26.14)
editor's note: A bird-borne bellyache from a scofflaw sky-lit thief - no sleep for you. - mh
Fifty Days in Witness Protection
There was a death, a hard one to hang your hat on,
not that any hat rack has a corner on holding
emotions while hearts carry on across the coffee
shop floor to a corner table sanctified,
a temporary sanctuary, two walls meeting up
with one latte, one private space in a peopled
room, soothing isolation facing opiated unity.
A temporary time between goodbye and hello,
protected, loved, gifted. Salve for an open wound
between tomb and womb. Oh troubled Jerusalem!
Where did your hearts go when consumed with grief
and in need of a place to bury consciousness
yet know you still breathed blood? City gates and a cup
of goats milk (hats hung, lattes slung), and the drone
of faded hallelujahs (lifelike conversation)
took you, takes me, to the mother of all whodunits.
- Beth DeSeelhorst
(added 06.25.14)
editor's note: That hat's a black fedora and the reveal is going to be something to see, in the end. - mh
Moth To A Light
Suppose angels drift like salt
or gracile jellyfish.
That at the core of an infant’s cry
armies of angels reside.
That angels are a peculiar lot,
flitting like moths around a candlewick
or trap of warm cinders.
Suppose they pour kisses over your eyes
or tickle your palms with a feather.
That one, who stands away from the rest,
has invented a new weather –
both improbable and comic.
Consider angels exploiting
your predilection toward sin,
taunting your hunkered-down mind,
goading you to slouch lower,
gloating by the graveside.
That they’re not angels at all,
but the reflection of men
in a bucket of black water.
You wouldn’t go back on your promises then,
would you old friend?
You wouldn’t regret living?
- Bruce McRae
(added 06.24.14)
editor's note: It's new weather for me. Those black water men are all wet; tired o' them. - mh
Fallacious Belief
We believe it’s a disease,
And slagged her off because she wouldn’t give him pity.
But really we’re falling faster than faith,
And drowning in murky waters of no self-discipline.
But we were born to shine.
I was born to shine.
Turning points reap ambition reclamation.
- Paul Donnachie
(2 poems added 06.23.14)
editor's note: We all float in the same free fall; fallacies abound. (We welcome Paul to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets with this submission. See more of his madness on his new page - with another new one, about a foul fetish. Check it out!) - mh
MY VILLANELLE
I want to learn to live before I die
To glimpse the light that makes my vision clear
To see the truth that lies within the lie.
I freely put the questions ‘how?’ and ‘why?’
And seek the face unknown in darkest fear.
I want to learn to live before I die.
The days and years stream swiftly swiftly by
In shimmering illusions cherished dear
Despite the truth that lies within the lie.
I found my hand in yours, so you and I
Gave each our vows, impassioned, young, sincere.
I want to learn to live before I die.
The teachers teach, the prophets prophesy
But miss the mystic rhythms of the sphere
Nor see the truth that lies within the lie;
Pure-hearted self; I sense a higher cry
To never leave the far yet love the near.
I want to learn to live before I die
To see the truth that lies within the lie.
- Harley White
(added 06.22.14)
editor's note: The living out-weighs the knowing. What is truth? Indeed! - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Perhaps it's time to take a smoke break (if you're a chokin' smoker, that is) and you need something to keep your mind occupied while you mindlessly suck down your cancer stick? Per(cough-cough)fect!
Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Here’s To Kissing Chimneys" by Addie Soaraki… "Life comes as smoke: with a fiery center, with a body that blankets everything. When it's all over, beauty is left behind, but it takes time to forget and for new green to grow." Here's a drag to feed your jones:
Yeah, sure. You’ve heard the old line: The young lady tells you, “I smell smoke,” and you know how it goes: Where there is smoke, most definitely, fire exists.
Did I mention fire exists? Pardon me, buddy, but after being locked in the so-called basement of life, lorded over, of course, by the Masters of All Time and All Space, you sometimes feel like heading South and starting a little lightning of your own. Don’t you?
And right: Nice guys always finish last, don’t they? Not exactly. Especially when life is a bar, and all the admirals and body language experts, the college boys who numb their instincts with alcohol and Singapore Slings, only to be force-fed someone else’s Thai food, you end-up being not so nice as you used to be, don’t you?
Been there. Done that. Yay.
So. A guy walks into a bar. This is not a joke. Nor is the bar anything close to being remotely legal or even street legal, more a shadow life in which fiber is fashion and clothes are make-up, and all the king’s Jaguars and all the King’s Ray Bans aren’t going to make a difference if you’re not, well, let’s simply call it: dangerous.
Get the rest of your smoke... er... read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of July (aka 07.02.14) at 8:00 sharp, when we will swirl it up madly in the LIVE way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, The Curiel's! Papa Chris is the mad man trumpeter of Swirve fame. Mama Tamitha is the vocalist from Swirve as well as a mighty fine writer and poet. The rest of the Curiel clan are kiddos Chaz, Caleb, & Chloe. Together they will be on our stage showing us what happens when a family gets together and swirls up some madness! DO NOT MISS THIS SHOW!
After our feature set we urge you stick around to get yourself a spot on our list... first come, first on the list! Which means... get there early!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
P.S. This month, like last month, we will be swirlin’ our madness in Absinthe’s VIP Lounge. If you don’t know where that is located, we’ll have folks up front guiding you to exactly where we’ll be.
P.P.S. AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. Here's the line-up for the rest of 2014!…
August: Justin Booth
September: R.A. Hernandez
October: Kerseymere
November: Karen X
December: Paul Koniecki
•••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Sharin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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